


Enduring

by gonergone



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/pseuds/gonergone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through everything, all the long dark centuries, it's always the three of them. Until suddenly it's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enduring

There is a tiny bar two blocks from his apartment that Arthur frequents more than he should. It's dirty and ugly and there are always ridiculous American sports playing on the TV in the corner that everyone ignores. It's a bar for cheap regulars, not for tourists or hipsters, which is why he likes it. It's a place he can sit at for hours and know no one will bother him. No one will even notice him, except the bartender who grunts at him from time to time. 

Bars are inherently different than pubs, though Americans never seem to know that. Arthur knows it, though, and he never misses London more than when he's sidling up to his bar and collecting a glass of the watered down shite that passes for beer. It's a small thing, a completely inconsequential thing, but all at once it makes him tired, it makes him _exhausted_ , the way he's living his life as if this is all there is. As if he isn't part of something a lot bigger.

Those are the days he wishes that Brian would just hurry the fuck up already, because the waiting is killing him.

*

They can't always keep the same names – there's only so much control they have, once everything is said and done – but they do what they can. They try to keep them similar, at least. Atilius thinks it's easier to keep the same names than trying to remember different ones all the time, and he's right. Even Brutus says he's right, and Brutus is clever enough to remember all the different names, clever enough to want new names every time, because he gets bored so easily. It was Brutus who Atilius expected to rebel against the rule eventually, but he was wrong about that; once he switches to Brian he likes it enough to keep. Instead, it's Caius who changes it every time, giving Atilius a lazy grin and calling himself Conrad, Kurt, Curtis, Curt.

He liked it when Atilius punished him for it, back when Atilius _could_ punish him. 

Later, during the dark empty centuries he spends alone, he likes to remember them together in Rome: holding Caius down, gripping that long dark curtain of hair and yanking hard enough to draw out the gasps and moans. Sometimes he uses the sharp point of a tribulus to scratch lightly along the sensitive areas of inner thigh, neck, and feet, watching the blood well up and streak the shuddering white flesh. Caius jerks against the ropes, but Atilius knows it's just for show, knows he's not really hurting him. He _couldn't_.

Brutus is different. Whereas Atilius does predictable things, boring things, Brutus is always coming up with something new to do to them. Sometimes Atilius thinks he likes it when he catches them doing something they shouldn't, because it gives him an excuse – not that he really needs it. He's unnervingly good at uncovering new weaknesses to exploit, even after knowing them for centuries. For millennia. He does clever things, fires unexpected arrows that actually hit their targets. Sometimes Atilius thinks Brutus actually likes it, likes causing the pain. At least, he likes it more than he likes kissing away the bruises afterward. He does that, too, but there's always something neat and cold about it, as if he's going through the motions. That's the part of Brutus that Atilius doesn't like, has never liked; is actually kind of afraid of.

*

One of his favorite things to do is to scar them, heating his pugio in the fire and branding them. Caius said once that it was a good thing they were reborn so often, because it gave Brutus a clean slate for marking them, and Atilius agreed. Brutus is desperate and grasping, and the branding is his way of laying claim to them, but that's not _all_ it is. While he's still a young man Atilius has _BRUTUS_ dug into the tender skin of his belly, the letters jagged but deep enough to be read decades later, as he lays dying in a tent outside Carthage. Brutus is gone by then, but Caius sits with him, two old men holding hands and breathing together. Waiting for death.

"He said he'd be on the Empire's edge, next time," Caius remarks.

"I know." He does know. Brutus was growing bored with Rome two generations ago. If he doesn't find something new, somewhere different to direct that frenetic energy, he'll end up doing something truly mad. Atilius can't even imagine how bad it could get. Brutus is, most of the time, completely unfathomable to him. "The Empire has a lot of edges. It's bigger every lifetime. Eventually it will swallow the whole world, and what will Brutus do then?"

"He'll find somewhere off the map to be born. Some secret place that Rome knows nothing about."

"And we'll never see him again."

"You'll find him," Caius tells him confidently. "That's your gift. You think we're all like you, but you're the one who always finds us, no matter where we're born. You always do it."

"It's not a gift," Atilius mutters. It really isn't. He could find Brutus and Caius's souls anywhere, no matter what they look like or what their names are, but that's not something in him, it's something in _them_. They shine so brightly he could never miss them. Never.

"I'll be right behind you, no more than a year or two."

"You just like to make me wait," Atilius mock-grumbles, squeezing his hand.

"You'll find Brutus first. Then you'll find me." He feathers kisses along Atilius' brow. "Why would I bother getting there first? I'd just waste time growing up without you, and you know I'd never be able to find Brutus without you. You're a moth to flame with him, never any question."

"I'm not the only one."

Caius just grins at him. Neither of them mention the fact that Brutus would never look for them.

"He wants to go to war again," Atilius complains. "That's why he's set on being born at the edge of the Empire."

"He does that," Caius laughs. "After a few hundred years he'll let us bring him back to civilization. Remember Thermopylae?"

"I remember the horse falling on me and crushing my leg. I was helpless on the ground and Brutus ran past me as if he didn't even see me." There's still more than a hint of bitterness there, even so many years later. "I stabbed a boy in the eye." He still feels the tiniest ripple of guilt about that. Hardly his first murder since the dawn of time, but the boy couldn't have been more than thirteen. Sometimes he wonders if all the death and pain he has caused will haunt him forever, if the weight of it will eventually break him. He knows he's alone in that: Caius and Brutus never seem to think of the past at all.

"The battle was enough to satisfy him, and afterward we went to Athens, remember? For a long time."

"Not long enough," Atilius sighs. 

Atilius can feel the movement of his Caius' chest as he chuckles. "You just love the cities."

"Of course I do. They're so interesting. A million times better than the outposts Brutus is always dragging us off to. Who wouldn't prefer the cities?" he asks in disbelief.

"He thinks you love them more than you love him."

"He likes forcing me to choose."

"He likes forcing everyone to choose, as long as he's sure they'll choose him." Caius wraps his hand around Atilius' wrist, a warning.

"I always choose him," he says defensively.

"He's waiting for the day you won't."

Atilius can't even imagine that. "I've never given him any reason to think –"

"He knows you, though. That's how he is. I guess he thinks you might, some day."

"What about you? He never tests you."

Caius looks at him squarely, unsmiling. "He never has to."

Atilius looks away first.

*

They've seen a lot of wars.

For Atilius the wars are the hardest thing, one after another after another. He forgets where they begin and end, sometimes, because they're all the same: the cottages going up in flames as the Romans or the Thebans or the Spartans spill across the plains, horses screaming all round them, death and blood and pain, and the world coming down. Brutus laughs, a weapon held high above his head, splatters of blood covering his torso. They love this, he and Caius. The battle, the victory: Brutus always puts them on the winning side. That's what matters to him the most, the win. It doesn't matter who the victors are. 

Atilius is different. From the beginning, all he can see are the swarms of people caught up in the battles, people that didn't want to be there in the first place. The people are defenseless, the people are _always_ defenseless and so fragile it hurts him to look at them. Sometimes when he's truly weak he fights on their side, even though he knows they'll lose. Sometimes he can't help himself, even though he knows how stupid and pointless it all is. They don't really have a side, _they don't take sides_ , not really, Brutus reminds him, hissing in the dark while Atilius's heart breaks. 

What Brutus never really understands is that it's impossible not to.

*

It doesn't _matter_ what their names are, even Atilius knows that. They'll find each other in every life, three bits of gold shining out from a vast sea of mud. They couldn't miss each other, not even if they tried.

There have been times – just a few – when he's wanted to try.

*

They don't always stay together. Brutus – Brian, he's Brian by then – says it will be boring, spending eternity with the same people, and he's probably right. Arthur wouldn't mind the chance to find out, actually, and he thinks Curt agrees with him, but neither of them ever try to argue the point. There's no point arguing with Brian once he's made up his mind, and doing it will just make him even more stubborn. He's infuriating that way, and Arthur hates him sometimes, he hates him, he hates him.

*

There isn't a particular kind of woman that Brian likes. There are young waifs, country girls stronger than he is, heiresses and sophisticates. Arthur and Curt go to his weddings, every single one. They sit at the back. They smile. 

They take whatever Brian is willing to give, and they always have each other in the meantime. 

There is rather a lot of meantime.

*

They die. They die _a lot_.

Every time, Arthur mourns them. He mourns them even though he knows perfectly well that the others think it's stupid. It's true, that they'll see each other again, but it won't be for years and years, and sometimes the ages never work out; sometimes Arthur is an old man while Brian's just being born. Sometimes Brian's an adult while he's still a schoolboy and Curt isn't there yet. It's hard to get it just right, and Arthur thinks he's the only one who ever bothers trying. 

*

Things get away from him for a while. 

They were in Gaul when Brian died, and Arthur knows he'd been born there again, that he's still there, a child. Arthur has plenty of time to find him, if he wants to, before he'll die.

He doesn't want to.

He flees instead, actually runs away from Brian, as fast as he can. He runs through Gaul, to Britain, a place they'd never been, putting the water between them. Even there he can feel him, can feel them both but mostly Brian, always Brian, an itch under his skin.

He ignores it.

*

Truly alone for the first time in centuries, Arthur isn't sure what to do with himself. 

So he becomes King.

*

 _We don't take sides_ , Brian said, but Arthur _had_ to. The Saxons were running wild across the country. People were dying, and Arthur could help them. He could finally, finally be of actual use to someone.

*

The castle of Camelot is big and unfinished. Arthur stands at the edge of the grass and runs his hand along rough stone as it thrusts at odd angles toward the sky. He doesn't turn when he hears the light footsteps behind him, but his heart starts thudding hard in his chest, and he's suddenly sure he's going to weep.

Brian would love that.

He's not sure what he was expecting, exactly, but the sudden grip on his arm is painful. He takes a deep breath and turns slowly, taking in the dark hair and eyes, the tall lanky frame and Brian, and Brian, and _Brian_. He knew Brian would be angry, but the disgust he sees is so familiar and so agonizing. So very Brian.

"What do you think you're doing?" Brian demands, his hand tightening even more. 

"I _was_ enjoying the view." It's stupid to be flip, Arthur knows, but he can't help it.

"Here, Arthur, what do you think you're doing _here_?" He's impatient, and Brian impatient might've sent Arthur scurrying a long time ago. Not anymore. "What are you doing in this wretched wasteland?"

"It's not a wasteland," Arthur snaps immediately, ridiculously offended. He sees Brian's eyes widen, the surprise overtaking the anger until he's looking at Arthur like he's never seen him before. _Maybe_ , Arthur thinks bitterly, _because he hasn't. Not really_. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you've lost your mind. _King Arthur_ , really? Defending a nation?" Brian's mouth twists in mockery.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. "What do you want?" 

Brian's eyes narrow, and he draws himself up to his full height. "You're coming back with me."

"No."

Brian stares. "What?"

"I said no."

He looks around slowly, making a production of lingering on the unfinished stone walls. "You're choosing to stay here? Honestly? There's nothing _here_ , Arthur." 

"There's a nation here. A people."

"A nation? A people?" Brian snorts. "They have nothing to do with us, Arthur. What could this nation and these people possibly have to offer you?"

"This has everything to do with me. I've built something here. I know you can't understand – "

Brian's voice goes low, harsh. "I understand it perfectly. You've always wanted to be worshipped, Arthur. You've always needed more adoration than we could give you. Now you've found a whole nation of idiots to do it. Does it feel good? Are they enough for you? I'm surprised you didn't try your hand at being Emperor. Couldn't have been worse than Tiberius." He spits the last at him.

Arthur puffs up with indignation. "Don't try to make me as selfish as you are. We both know you're just upset because for once I didn't go running to you, for once in _ten thousand years_ I'm doing something that has nothing to do with _you_."

"So, what? You're just going to turn your back on us and spend your life looking after your precious nation?"

"My people, Brian. I'm looking after my people. I'm going to try to do something that matters." He knows as soon as he says it that he's gone over an invisible line. He doesn't need to look at Brian to know there's hurt in his eyes.

"I'm supposed to matter!" Brian shouts, and Arthur takes a step back from him.

For a long moment they just look at each other.

Finally Arthur takes a deep breath. "They matter more," he says quietly, and sees Brian flinch. "They _have_ to matter more." 

"They're _nothing_." 

Arthur doesn't say anything, just watches the red of Brian's cheeks slowly melt back to pink. He'd been dreaming of the day Brian would come to Britain, would see what Arthur has accomplished. Would _understand_. Except now Arthur knows how this will end, how it was always going to end. He's dying inside, torn asunder, but he can't ever let Brian know.

"This is it, Arthur. This is when you have to choose."

Arthur nods. "I know."

"If you don't come with me right now, then I'm leaving." There was an edge of desperation to the words.

"You could stay with me, for once. You could choose _me_ , Brian."

Brian looks away from him then. "I can't."

"I know." He does. 

"Everything has changed," Brian says. "Stop changing things, Arthur."

"I can't," Arthur whispers.

He turns away so he doesn't have to see Brian walking away from him.

*

He doesn't see Brian for a long time after that.

*

He dies, and dies, and dies, and every single time thinks, _next time I'll go find them_ , but he never does. He can't. Something long brittle has finally snapped inside of him, and he knows Brian was right: everything has changed. He can't ever go back to begging for Brian's attention now. Whatever needs to happen between them needs to happen _between_ them.

He waits instead.

*

Arthur has lost his ability to be surprised by the bloodthirstiness of humanity by the time the first World War breaks out. 

Once in a while, he thinks he catches the smallest glimpse of Brian out of the corner of his eye, there and gone, a wisp of smoke. A memory. Not real. Never real.

Eternity has never felt so long.

*

He knows they're back in Germany when war breaks out again, and he thinks about them more than he does the millions of people in England. He curses himself daily, knows Brian isn't thinking of him. 

Wishes Brian were thinking of him. 

It never helps.

*

He's done with war after that. He goes to Ireland, to have a bit of a change. Ireland is poor and religious and beautiful. Ireland hasn't fought in any wars.

It's enough.

*

He dreams about them every night. He misses them more than anything. He misses them in his _teeth_.

*

The first time he hears Brian on the radio he stops dead, his eyes unfocused, listening with everything he has. The voice is different, always different, but he'd still know it anywhere.

The next morning he stands outside the shop for two hours in the cold grey light, waiting for it to open. He hasn't slept. He hasn't eaten. He can't wrap his mind around it. Brian is in England. Brian is in _England_. Brian has come to him, in a manner of speaking. Brian has gone to England and become a pop star, because he knew that would be the thing that made sure Arthur couldn't miss him, even if he wanted to. He's not sure how to take that. 

He waits. He waits. 

*

Of course he goes to London. He can't stop himself. Later, he wonders if Brian had been waiting for him to get there so he can pull that ridiculous stunt with the fake death, the death Arthur immediately knew was fake. He was in the _room_ , he knows what it feels like when one of their souls slips away, has felt it a thousand times before. He knows Brian's not dead. It can't be for him, then… but it is. He knows it is. He knows it doesn't matter. Brian Slade's whole career was reaching out to Arthur. Brain waited for him to be there, to witness the end of the pop star. The end of Brian's tentative reaching.

When weeks go by and Brian never surfaces again, he decides it was a trick. Breadcrumbs left to lead him nearly all the way, so that, as always, in the end it's him finding Brian. Brian refuses to take those last steps himself. _Only so far and no further._ He's ready to go back to Ireland.

Then he finds Curt.

*

Being with Curt on the rooftop is everything he's been missing. So good, and so right, so many things he's forgotten about. So many things he's needed. As much as he hates to admit it, he does need it, need them, and time spent without them is a dismal half-life, a shadow. He feels Curt sigh against the back of his neck, long and deep, and he knows he's not the only one. That doesn't matter, though. Not as long as they're together. Not as long as he can feel Curt trembling against him, inside him.

When he wakes up alone the next morning, he's not surprised. 

*

After that, London is too full of ghosts. New York is different, new. He tries to work out what it will mean if they follow him there, but he's not sure. He's never sure about anything with Brian, in the end. That's the problem. But if he does follow him – if he does…

He writes the article, his own tentative reaching. Let Brian come to him.

So Arthur waits. There's no hurry, after all. They have forever.

Eventually, he thinks, Brian will come to _him_ , and it will be worth waiting for.

Eventually.


End file.
